


the room-mate/nemesis re-quantification

by anenglishwolf



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Big Bang Theory RPF, The Big Bang Theory (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Broken Engagement, Engagement, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenglishwolf/pseuds/anenglishwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penny breaks off her engagement to Leonard and he's broken-hearted, just broken.  Sheldon can't quite cope and calls in reinforcements in the shape of his trusty buddy/nemesis Wil Wheaton.  Who comforts Leonard effectively, in ways that Sheldon would never have predicted...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if I lost you would i cry?

**Author's Note:**

> I know Wil Wheaton is a) a RP and b) spoken for. But let's just pretend otherwise for a little while, okay?
> 
> No resemblance to a real-life Wil Wheaton is conceivable. Sheldon would never let Leonard have him if he knew he was so inclined.
> 
> This fic may seem a little critical of Penny, but I just needed a way to get the guys together. I love Penny! Penny is an angel!
> 
> Sub-titles are from Tina Turner's 'River Deep, Mountain High'.
> 
> Emily Dickinson quote in the text.

When it's over, it's not really a surprise, not for Leonard. Penny looks much more surprised than he is, and yet she's the one breaking it off. The one carefully, tactfully handing him back his ring, listing off all of the reasons that it would never have worked, that it _hasn't_ worked. A pharmaceutical rep, Penny, really? Early marriage, for Penny? Giving up on her dreams: being realistic: accepting defeat... No.

(Marrying a nerd. At least that's what Leonard thinks, in his heart of hearts, although he doesn't say it out loud. Penny would only deny it. And it's not like he really thinks it, not really, not truly, except...) 

Anyway that's it, after all these years of pining and courtship and relationship and breaking up and re-relationship and engagement. Now, there's no more Leonard and Penny. They had a good run, but like most hit shows they took it a season or two too far.

She hugs him, and he hugs her, and they both cry. But he can't miss the voracious and excited gleam in her eyes, when they're all cried out and are only sniffling a little bit finally, when they edge a little apart and look at each other with farewell in their eyes.

She's not sorry, not now that it's over. A little nostalgic and regretful, but not really _sorry._ He was always over-shooting, with her, shooting for the moon and hitting the court basketball hoop. Actually, given his level of athletic prowess, probably not even hitting that. Penny's heart isn't broken. He's not the guy who could break Penny's heart. She'll feel sad whenever she looks at her polyvinyl acetal resin snowflake, that's all. She'll tell her big blond bratty kids what it is, and about the great, great guy who gave it to her, the super-smart one she almost not-quite married. The one before the deadbeat first husband, and then the film exec second. (Oh, is Leonard a little cynical? He thinks he's earned the right.) She'll be sad. She's sad now, a little.

Leonard, he's _wrecked_. So he does what he did the last time his heart got broken. (Was that Priya, or was it Penny? He's kind of lost track, which is pretty impressive when you consider how few girlfriends he's had. It probably wasn't Joyce Kim – he wouldn't actually classify that as heartbreak. Maybe more embarrassment).

He drags himself back to the apartment – because the break-up was held at the Cheesecake Factory, all kinds of ironical, and redolent in enough associations and _deja vu_ and nostalgia to make Proust's madeleines look like... like cheesecake. He knows the waitresses there were _fully_ aware of what was going on, even though Penny's moved on and so have other people, and not many of her old friends are working there any more, let alone the highly-edumacated likes of Bernadette. He would have got sarcastic with a rubber-necking couple of them. Except he was too busy, having his heart ripped out. 

Sheldon isn't home – thank God, praise all the saints, hallelujah? So he doesn't need to field inane questions about what's happened and how he feels about it, with enquiries about sarcasm in response to his responses. He crawls onto the sofa, and blasts out 'Boston' by Augustana, on his iPod, and something about this just feels so familiar. He's chewing on Madeleines like a baby on a rusk, all right, but he doesn't care what past heartbreak he's subconsciously revisiting. This, here and now, _this_ is the worst ever. This, he's never going to get over.

xxx

He wakes up with his back hurting, because he's not young enough any more to sleep on the couch with impunity, without paying a price in wear and tear. That's not even the bad news. The bad news is it's Sheldon coming home from a relationship-agreement-mandated weekly date with Amy, who's woken him up. 

Ten minutes in, and he has a mug of hot herbal tea that he didn't want in his hands – the answer to all crises, for Sheldon. And he only wants to kill Sheldon a _little_ bit, a tribute to his restraint even under extreme pressures. “I don't know why, Sheldon,” he says wearily, in answer to the umpteenth query that is some variant on _how come_ he managed to let the perfect girlfriend and fiancee slip through his fingers. (From his initial views on Penny, both on her own merits and as a life-partner for Leonard, Sheldon has travelled a long way. Partially it's a matter of custom and habit. He's sufficiently used to Penny, to her presence across the hall and in his living room and in Leonard's bed, that he might as well take his label-maker and label her _my Penny_ , in his proprietorial way. The way things are is the way they should always be and remain, for Sheldon, and they all know it full well by now. _His_ spot on the couch, no oranges in his mandarin chicken, you'd better derned-tootin' betcha, and Penny across the hallway forever, her position as the love of Leonard's life sacrosanct, possibly more so to Sheldon than even to Leonard himself.

Partly it's real affection at this point, as much even possibly as habit and custom. Sheldon's Meemaw calls him nummy and could eat him up. His mother makes the best fried chicken in Texas. Penny sings _Soft Kitty Warm Kitty_ to him, in her own special and particular way, a way that is at this point irreplaceable. This many years in, the inferior renditions of others are unacceptable, no matter how sick he is.

Need is how Sheldon expresses love. He may still ration out his hugs to her. But in his way, Sheldon loves Penny, all right. Great. Just great. So it isn't just Leonard who's dumped, effectively. It's the both of them. Nerds left in Penny's dust, her soon to be super-star dust. (And Leonard has a horrible feeling – that shouldn't be horrible, it shouldn't, but it is – that that might come true. That he may wind up a footnote in her Wikipedia entry, a bizarre hotlink in the 'Personal Life' section that notes that the highest paid actress on TV, star of so-and-so and what-not, used at one point to be engaged to Nobel-prize winning physicist Leonard Hofstadter).

Then he wakes himself up with a slap to his cheek, since Sheldon is busy making him more hot beverage – cocoa and marshmallows, since it's an emergency, and he isn't responding to bitter herbs – and can't wake him up to reality. Penny may be a nascent superstar in the making. But Leonard is never going to win a Nobel. Top five percent isn't top nought point five, never was never will be never gonna be. 

The thought is pretty much the last straw – since his career is, now, all he has left. And when Sheldon comes out of the kitchen with a steaming Star Wars mug in hand, loaded up with every marshmallow in the house – maybe he loves Leonard too, in his inimitable way – Leonard seasons it with salt, with tears.

xxx

Forty-five minutes later, there's a knock at the door that's a perfect imitation of Sheldon's knock. “Leonard!” Rat-tat-tat. “Leonard!” Rat-tat-tat. “Leonard!”

It's not Sheldon's voice, but if it's someone who knows Sheldon's ways well enough to imitate his knock, then this could go on for some time in any case. From where he's limply glued to the couch – Sheldon's spot and all, clutching a throw like it's his blankie and might make everything okay if he never lets it go – Leonard peels himself up and off, stands wearily and answers the door.

Opens up, and it's Wil. Wil Wheaton. Which is, okay, not unknown. Hey, they move in starry, ritzy, elevated circles, Leonard and his bunch of nerdmigos, these days. Well, they know Wil, anyway. And Penny will be famous someday.

_Penny._

He can feel his face sag at the thought, as he stares blankly at Will. Who has a careful, practised grin on his face as the door opens. It dims and reduces as he takes in the sight of Leonard.

“Buddy!” he says, still, though, bravely upping the brilliance switch again. “I was just passing by, and I thought I'd come around and bring my latest straight-to-DVD for you to check out!” And he holds up a disk-case in one hand. “Also chips!” he adds, demonstrating the family-size bag in the other hand. There's a twelve pack of beer on the apartment hallway floor behind him. 

Leonard slumps against the jamb of the door. “No you weren't,” he says. “Sheldon called you and told you to get your butt over here, because I was in pieces.”

And Wil lets go of the bright-faced lies, and the pretence that there's nothing to see here, move along, just one buddy dropping in on another buddy. “Actually, he didn't say butt, he said patootie,” he offers.

“That's Sheldon,” Leonard agrees, with a wry grin. “You coming on in?”

“Oh thank God,” are Sheldon's first words of greeting for their guest, as they traipse back into the apartment, and Sheldon re-emerges from his bedroom. Where he'd allegedly retreated to look for a beverage recipe book - nothing was doing the trick - and a bottle of sloe moonshine he recalls his MeeMaw sending him two Christmases back. (The situation clearly being dire and requiring non-virgin Cuba Libres, or equivalent). But had, obviously and surprisingly, been making emergency phone-calls around their circle of friends, in desperate search of someone more qualified and experienced to deal with a dose of acute heartbreak.

Wil, it seems, was the most readily and speedily available. Initially, it's a little surprising. He's in the outer circle of their friends, he's still at least half-way a celebrity, and he's kind of attractive. Leonard's instinctive assumption would be that, friendly feelings aside, he'd have better things to do. 

On second thoughts, it's maybe not so odd. Howard and Bernadette have the baby, now. Raj and Stuart are having problems with the third comic-book store opening in their nascent business empire. Amy is about as qualified for agony-aunt advice as Sheldon. Perhaps less so, since whatever your troubles, you still don't know the trouble Amy's seen, and she will invariably have a sadder-sack story than you're capable of to trump you with.

Not what's needed, here.

But evidently Will – out of the whole bunch of them – had nothing better to do than to babysit and comfort Leonard, in his hour of lead. Which is good of him. Leonard appreciates it, in a numb, far-off kind of a way. 

“Thank you so much, Wil Wheaton,” Sheldon is busily effusing, his hands clasped together at chest-height in delight. “I was at my wits' end, trying to comfort and assuage the pain for poor Leonard here.” And he indicates Leonard, in a very 'TO THE OFFICE' way. It clearly indicates that as well as seeking assistance, he's also been practising justifying his cut-and-run intentions in the depth of his lair for the past ten minutes. 'Poor Leonard', meanwhile, doesn't really care, and is busy shambling back to the couch and crawling onto it, with a beer abstracted from the case that Wil has dragged in, without assistance proffered from Sheldon. 

“But now that you're here,” Sheldon adds, “and I know that Leonard is in good hands, I can follow the original program for my evening's entertainment and head on out to Amy's place!” He beams, at the both of them. It's kind of like a meerkat or beaver sitting up on its hind paws, expecting a pat on the head for a neat trick. 

“You do that, buddy,” Wil says agreeably, nodding his head. “Get right along there – Leonard'll be fine with me, that right, good buddy?” he asks, as he descends onto the couch at Leonard's side. 

“Sure. Yeah,” Leonard agrees, 'cause people are still expecting him, it seems, to participate and contribute and have an opinion and _care._ Even though his heart is broken, even though nothing is ever going to be right or good again, even though his Mom is right about him and he's been denying himself dairy products for three years now to what _purpose_ and Penny is gone. Gone.

He is still alert enough to note mentally that what the heck, Sheldon has just this past half hour _come back_ from an evening with Amy Farrah Fowler, what is this bullshit about going back out to see her? That's how desperate he is not to be saddled with Leonard-duties for the rest of the night, how vehemently he's allergic to messy feelings and emotional goo?

Oh, silly question, of course. It's Sheldon they're talking about – of course an overnighter at his girlfriend's house, while a drastic and unwelcome prospect, is still better than having to take care of and listen to another human being. Amy will give him house-room for the night and be delighted, without even expecting him to talk, interact or acknowledge her existence in any way. (Certainly not to sleep in the same bed. She'll be on the couch. He'll be on the bed. That's the way it works between them, and maybe if Leonard had been more of a hard-liner like Sheldon, maybe if he was hardcore selfish and hadn't put Penny first and treated her little baby feelings as --- Okay, it's official, he's nuts with grief. If he's acting as if Sheldon Cooper is any kind of template for how to run a relationship then he's not only nuts, he's also doomed.)

Sheldon's at the door while he's ruminating, an overnight bag on one shoulder as he gives them both a bright, perky, artificial grin and wave. “You guys have fun!” he exhorts. “I'm outtie!”

_Slam_. He's outtie, all right. Bye-bye Sheldon. “Well,” Wil says, settling back more comfortably into the sofa – on Sheldon's spot, and the fact that Sheldon possibly didn't even _notice_ , still less care enough to actually protest against it even given his plans for a night spent _in absentia_ , speaks much to his desperation to get the heck away from Leonard's toxic pain and anguish. “At least he made sure you had someone around to keep you away from the absinthe and the razorblades, before he headed for the hills. Right?”

Leonard pauses a moment, at that. He could take massive offence, he supposes. But it's probably an accurate assessment, and it's marginally funny, and it's _Wil_ , who he guesses does care about him a little bit, what with being here and all in the first place, answering Sheldon's emergency klaxon. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Gotta give him some credit.”

“I'm going to order take-out,” Wil says. “And find a bottle-opener. You do actually want that bottle opened, right?”

Leonard looks down at the still-sealed bottle he's nursing, like he's actually nursing it, like a baby panda. “Yeah. Or I was just going to suck on it through the cap, till I died of nickel-poisoning.”

Wil's shuffling through the cutlery drawers, wonderfully disordering all of Sheldon's system and order – Sheldon is in for a shock tomorrow, Wil thinks nothing of throwing unsuitable implements behind him irritably in his search for hoppy malty goodness access – when Leonard thinks to call out, “You want to play Halo? Or have a Hobbit marathon, or, or, Star Wars, or...” That's him exhausted. He doesn't really care, not about any of his nerd standards, not right now, even though they're the rocks that have kept him afloat in so many other troubles. But he's the host, here – sort of, anyway, although he barely has energy and attention to remember it. 

“Are you kidding?” Wil calls over, though, from where he's assembling glasses, bottles... sandwiches? He has so much energy, bright and alert and active, this – fucking – cult icon, in his _fucking_ kitchen.

Leonard puts his head down on the pillows. He'd hate Wil right now, for being whole and functional and having a life that works. If he had the spark inside him to do that, even for that. He doesn't. 

“We,” Wil continues, bringing a loaded tray over, a smile on his face that is determined not to acknowledge Leonard's quest to bring the vibe down, not to go down with the Titanic, “are having a chick-flick night, man. You just got dumped. This isn't a night for Bilbo Baggins or Darth Maul. This is a night for Leo and Kate. For Anna Scott and William. Fuck, we may go so far as to put on _When Harry Met Sally_. I make no guarantees that it's not gonna happen.”

And with his ass in place – Sheldon's spot, Sheldon's spot! - he reaches out a hand and, slightly gingerly, pats Leonard's head where it's pressed into the cushions. He strokes sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, pats his shoulder, then gives a firm little tug. “Come on, Lenny. Up you come. Sit up and watch excruciating girl-flicks with meet-cutes and weddings and heartbreak. With me.”

“Oh God.” Leonard gives in to the tugging and the prodding, but only because he can tell that Wil isn't going to give up until he gets his way. He sags into place, nominally sitting up straight, leaning against both the back of the couch, and Wil. And he gives Wil the most fleeting glance. Who is watching Leonard, with an expression that's kind but firm. “Why the hell would I want to do that?” he asks. “I just got dumped, remember? By my fiancée? And I'm going to want to watch films about weddings? And break-ups? And love? Why, Wil? Why in the world would I want to do that?” He can hear the whiny, scritchy, holding-back-tears, ready-to-weep note in his voice. He hates it, but he doesn't care enough to try to stop it.

Wil just pats Leonard's hand where it's laid on his knee, warm, dry, friendly. Then leaves it there, warmer still. “Because,” he says, “you need to cry, Leonard.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2500


	2. and oh boy I love you like a schoolboy loves his pal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard is broken, but Wil is good at putting the pieces back together. Maybe his methods are a little unorthodox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming in the third part, honest.

Leonard wakes up, but he doesn't wake up on the sofa. That's half the explanation for his vagueness and disorientation, until his visual and mental focus homes in, and he regains some orientation and idea of where he is and what's going on, what's _been_ going on. This is his own bedroom.

He's not alone. This is the main issue that immediately springs to his attention, though. He's mostly dressed, in the same loose gym pants that he'd dragged on the minute after getting into the apartment earlier in the evening, the same t-shirt that he's been wearing for getting on for twenty-four hours now. The t-shirt is under his face, balled up for extra padding, on his pillow, where he's lying on his stomach and his arms flung upward.

Someone has their arm over his back, heavy and planting him steady in place. Not that he thinks that gravity is about to fail him now. Everything else in his life might seem potentially traitorous, unreliable and two-faced. But at least nature's four forces, weak, strong, on the flippety-flop, whatever - a physicist can rely on those no matter what.

Well. Probably, anyhow. There isn't much of _anything_ that Leonard's prepared to take at face value, not right now.

Not so long ago, he was relying on Penny's affection for him, just as if it was a natural law of the universe. And look where _that_ got him.

Rubbing his eyes, Leonard struggles up on his elbow, and the limb over him slides down, heavy and unresisting, to his waist. Looking to the owner, Leonard finds that it's Wil.  Which is less of a surprise than it being anyone else would have been.  Sheldon, or Priya, or Penny...  It's never going to be Penny, not again.

Leonard still widens his eyes a little bit, though. They're on his bed – he can't even remember getting there – and fully clothed. And Wil is out cold, as much as Leonard was moments ago. Leonard can only squint in the dim light from multiple active consoles, a luminous clock and the Boba Fett model that took a quarter out of his special nerd account, when Stuart expertly sold it to his dorky ass a couple months ago.

Leonard feels so drained. Enough that, recce done with, he just slumps back down onto the bed, not even trying to dislodge Wil's arm. He's back on his stomach, but facing the other way, looking at Wil's sleeping face.

Hoo, boy, his stomach's roiling now. Wil's done a good job, a friend's job, of pouring beer down his throat, in between listening to his tale of woe. But Leonard's beginning to feel the effects a bit now, and he'll be feeling it a whole lot worse in the morning. Just as long as his stomach doesn't rebel before he can get to the bathroom anytime before morning, they'll probably get through it, though.

It's not so much the beer that's wiping out his soul and his mind. Not beer but tears, the ironed-flat emptied-out vibe of having cried enough to dehydrate his soul. Physically it's actually kind of pleasant, that absolute level of relaxation. In his spirit, it feels like the Dementors have had a good go at him while he's been asleep, whispering in his ear that _no_ , he'll never be loved again. Penny was his chance and somehow, he's failed.

Maybe he should try crying again, it might feel better than this desert in his chest. He tries, but he's dry, he can't. Just lies flat, with his chest heaving a bit, and a warm body next to him.

The warm body is more than that, though, and it stirs and wakes, which isn't exactly welcome news for Leonard. Face slumped in his Star Trek pillow, he can still feel the picking up of alertness, the flexing of the arm that's still laid over the small of his back, the first swell of his ass, and he knows he's being watched. The mattress shifts and dents, he can feel it as Wil pulls himself up on one elbow to look down at him.

Still he feigns sleep. He's a little bit embarrassed by how he wept and snivelled all over Wil only a very few hours ago. It's probably going to be a while before he can actually look him in the eye again. In fact – and he feels the first faint stirring of a trace of resentment in his heart, and if nothing else it's a welcome distraction from _pennypennypennypennyohpenny_. In fact, it would probably have been more _tactful_ if Wil had tucked him into bed and quietly left, so they needn't have gone through this awkward awakening.  He hadn't been half as drunk as Leonard, it would have been quite feasible...

There's warmth and pressure and a faint tacky moisture on the back of his neck.  A, a, a, a kiss? A _kiss_? What, _what_ , a kiss? Leonard's discombobulated enough not to even look up immediately, just stir himself and shuffle on the duvet, then, yes, he looks up. His face has to be bewildered. Wil smiles at him, perfectly calm, and really pretty close. They're practically cuddling. (They were practically cuddling on Sheldon's spot on the couch for a couple of hours at least, as Anna Scott broke and re-broke and glued back together poor Will Thacker's heart. As Leonard blew his nose noisily, and blubbed all over Wil's shoulder.)

“What are you doing?” Leonard asks, honestly bewildered. “What was that?” He means the kiss. Of course he means the kiss. He doesn't mean to be _funny_. There's no reason on earth for Wil to grin.

“Distracting you,” Wil says. And he leans that little bit closer that's all the distance they are apart, and kisses Leonard's mouth, this time. It's a while, before he pulls back, and says, “Is it working?” In the space of that time Leonard's found time to make a professional cartographer's map of Wil's lips, even and nicely carved, to confirm that yes, they both ate a hundredweight of cheetos last night, and no, neither of them brushed nor flossed. And to think that in the couple of dozen or so times that he's wondered how kissing a guy is different -- sometimes about particular guys, sometimes in general (and at least twice about Wil in particular) -- it's never occurred to him that in all important particulars, it's pretty much exactly the same. Maybe a little bristlier, but it doesn't seem to noticeably detract from the _distraction_ , not really.

Not in any way that makes his impressions less intense, the soft fuzzy warmth in his chest and the tingle of tears. Someone being nice to him, arms around him, a kiss and a cuddle in the mostly-dark, that's all it takes. He'd be embarrassed, but it's not like he doesn't know this about himself already by now. His pseudo-automatic reaction is pretty much an afterthought. And he only pulls away far enough that their lips still brush, when he says, “Ah, Wil. I'm not gay. Or anything. And I thought you...?”

The flicker of Wil's eyebrows is more tangible than visible. “Do you _have_ to be? Are you batting a zero for Kinsey? Does it matter, right now?”

“Boy,” Leonard says, suddenly caught up in a frickin' _debate_ , when two minutes ago he was kissing/being kissed. (Why does he do this?) “Those are _good questions._ ”

“And?” Wil asks, joggling him a little bit, in arms that are stronger than his, stronger than Penny's even. (And Penny could probably take Leonard in a bar-fight. He'd liked that. He'd liked being held down by her, and when she used to _nononodon'tgothere_.) He kisses Wil now, with vehement alarm, staving off a recurrence of breakdown that might take him _down and down_ forever and permanently. And he answers in between kisses.

“Not a zero,” he explains. “Two, one-point-five maybe most days. One, when Battlestar Galactica is mid-marathon, because Six, you know...   Maybe a three point two five, if there's a new MCU trailer with Chris Pine in a really tight outfit.  I've just never... gone there. Done anything about it. No matter what Raj might suggest, without knowing he's suggesting it.”

And Wil pushes him away a little, which seems a waste of good kissin' time, now that Leonard has come around to the idea and got some enthusiasm going, is ready to calculate and theorize his ass off, or whatever the sexual equivalent might be, 'cause this is way better than any Physics Bowl. But Wil still holds him close enough that they barely need to sound out words, could mouth them and feel the breath of meaning from each other's lips. Cheeto-scented meaning, too.

“Any reason why not?” he asks. “Are you sure about this? Maybe we should slow it down, think about it.” And boy, this is too late to be having compunction and second thoughts and higher ethical boundaries. Because now it's not just Leonard's lips in the game, his dick wants to join in the action, and this is so, so much better than pining about Penny.  He's almost desperate to keep it going. There's stuff about pain receptors and pleasurable activity and natural analgesics that passes fitfully, fretfully through his brain, but mostly he knows that it _feels good,_ and he desperately needs to feel good right now.

But it's not just a convenient smoothing over the moment, but the God's honest truth, when Leonard replies, “No good reason. Well... the way it really works, whenever I've thought about it, I've also thought that...” He shrugs his shoulders.  And he can hear that needy, apologetic, self-effacing... _self_ in his voice, that essence of Leonard, and sometimes Leonard fucking hates it. Sometimes Leonard hates Leonard. For _that_ , for that note in his voice of apology and deprecation, exactly that.

Still the truth will out. “I get enough rejection from the double-X proportion of the dating population,” he admits, with another shrug. “I figure, do I need to double it with the guys? I guess not. Not usually. Not normally.” And that brings up a whole other question in itself. “I mean, I never would have figured you for making a move on me,” he adds, and he has more than one reason for sounding resigned. Because, a) he's admitting unattractively self-deprecating facts about himself, to an attractive person who was _actively_ interested and doing something about it, just moments ago. And b), irrespective of _what_ they might be talking about, the fact remains that they're now sitting up on a slightly rumpled duvet, sitting and chatting instead of makin' time. Why does he _do_ these things to himself?

But all the same, he does want to know. He's painfully aware of the sleep creases on his face and in his Trekkie t-shirt, that he's squinting without his glasses, that no amount of dim lighting is going to cover up the fact that he's a thirty-two year old guy dressed like a twenty-one year old guy.  It couldn't be more clear that he's a man at a crossroads, clinging on by his fingernails to the past and what's familiar, even as it gives a seismic heave and shakes him off. “Why _are_ you making a move on me?” he asks, because the words are determined to get out there in the world somehow, whether Leonard will or no.

Wil laughs, a little micro-laugh that's quite kind. Wil is usually kind, it's his signature. Leonard likes that in a guy.  Or in a girl, or in anyone really. He relies on it, the kindness of strangers, and don't we all but _some more than others._ “Would you believe me if I said I've been nursing a secret passion that dare not speak its name for you, for years now?” Wil asks. And Leonard doesn't even have to think about it, not for a second.

“No,” he says bluntly. It earns him a belly-laugh, not a micro-laugh, out of Wil. That feels good. He's a _funny guy._ He could always make Penny laugh, at least. _Some_ of the time, he could make her laugh. Better not to think about it, though. He smiles. However he's feeling, it's still nice to make Wil laugh. “Well, come on,” he says, even venturing to tease, a little bit. He prods Wil in the chest, in the pretty nice burgundy dress shirt that was _really_ pretty nice at the start of the evening.  It's a bit wrinkled with napping and spooning, at this point. (He's dressed up pretty nice, altogether, really, just for coming around and comforting a pal. This is the first time that Leonard's stopped to notice or to think about that). “Have you?”

“No,” Wil says.

“Okay,” Leonard says. “I admit I'm a little bit disappointed. You could at least pretend, boost my ego up a little bit. It needs a little bit of stroking. I've had a _really awful day_.” And twelve hours ago, he couldn't have conceived of any possible outcome where, now, he'd be making wheedling use of the fact that Penny can only see him out her rearview mirror, as she heads onwards and upwards, to flirt with a testing, sideways glance at Wil Wheaton.

It kind of works pretty well, though, and Leonard can't help preening himself a little bit at that. His hand's still on Wil's chest – has come to rest there, and how exactly did that happen without Leonard's conscious intent? Now Wil's hand covers it, firm, and he smiles more seductively at Leonard. Kind of like Leonard is a very naughty boy, but he _likes_ it, and maybe – uh-oh, how did Leonard's brain get the idea to go _there,_ anyhow? “All right, Leonard,” he says, kind of indulgent like it's _candy for a good boy_ after all. “I will say that I have always liked you. I mean, out of your dingbat crowd of friends you are far and away the sanest. The politest. The least likely to hit on anything in a metal bikini and bodypaint, if I have an at-home to celebrate a new release. The most attractive.”

“Yeah?” Leonard asks cautiously. He shuffles a little bit closer.  They're a little over-dressed, for this.  It's the sort of conversation you should have after staggering home after a bar night, with a friend you're a little bit too attracted to, winding up on the couch with fries and Twilight Zone re-runs and borrowed boxers and t-shirts and leaning in a little close...

Well, it _is_ that kind of night. There's just too many layers and polite etiquette-y back and forth going on. “The last part?” he asks – because a little sugar is never enough, everyone's a honey-bear when it comes to a little sugar. “So is that a new development, or is it something you've been considering for a while? And hey, you'd even pick me over Raj? Because Sheldon, and _Howard_ , well, but Raj kind of has something...”

“Leonard,” Wil says, and he might as well add _tsk-tsk-tsk._ “You could be described as my type, let's leave it at that – when I'm veering in that direction, anyway. And I like you, you're my friend. And like I say, you need distracting, right here and now. And I am happy to be a distraction, for you.”

It's really not a romantic declaration. It's not like undying love and secret pining revelations wouldn't have been nice – when are they not nice? (Except from Howard.) But Leonard is surprisingly okay with this temperate, mildly affectionate approach. His standards are higher than Stuart's, it's true – he does require something more than the absence of _soul-sucking ball-shrivelling hatred and contempt_ to get his motor running.

Wil's hit on the level that's just about sufficient, though. And he has pretty eyes. Leonard's always thought so. Although he's not about to _say_ so. Not even now.

So he answers with his lips, the way that needs no words, and Wil is more than clearly just fine with that. In a split-second Leonard's been flipped over onto his back, and Wil is chewing at his collarbone – yow, enthusiasm! - while undoing Leonard's shirt-buttons with equal amounts urgency and highly-practised precision. “You know,” Wil says – tongue taking a journey around the line of Leonard's jaw, and fizzing and fritzing hot and pleasant over the bristle he has to be finding there - “I thought of just taking your clothes off and tucking you up in bed when I toddled you in here, after we'd finished with _Runaway Bride_ and you weren't quite ambulatory on your own. Man, you were _far gone._ That overstuffed head of yours is gonna kick like a mule in the morning, buddy. But anyhow, I thought better of it, just tumbled you down on top of the covers and joined you, 'cause I was kind of beered up myself. And also it seemed a little bit pervy to be taking your clothes off, when you'd basically passed out.”

“Wouldn't have minded,” Leonard pants out at that – because by now Wil has moved on to his pants, is making short work of them and practically peeling Leonard out of them, legs akimbo and swinging up in the air before slamming back down on the bed. “I mean, you're my friend, and I know you're not the skeevy type, I wouldn't have freaked out when I woke up or anything.”

Wil's in the middle of pulling his own shirt off, and there's a bit of a struggle where he gets it stuck on his manly and prominent ears.  But when he finally gets it off and throws it to the side of the room – flushed in the face and his normally tidy hair fluffed and wild – he grins down at Leonard. He looks a little bit like a friendly beaver out of the Narnia franchise, except handsomer and minus the dams and the pelt. And the tail. “It would have been a _little_ bit skeevy,” he points out, stretching and scratching a shoulder-blade, flexing rather nice arms. Leonard notices his arms, the chest that's more ripped than you'd think, the abdominals. (It's not honestly the first time that he's noticed these things.) “I was already having these thoughts _then_. Can't swear I'd have stuck to just pantsing you and singing you _'Soft Kitty'_ , kept my hands to myself.”

“Okay, maybe you are a pervert,” Leonard concedes, putting his hands behind his head as Wil sinks down to him, all fours, trapping him on the bed. “Right now, that's good news for both of us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. and it gets deeper, let me say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut smut smut smut smut smut _smut._
> 
> SMUT.
> 
> And a little angst and emotional bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably going to four chapters. _Probably._
> 
> W.J. Turner quote in text.

In seconds they're naked. And if you don't jump each other's bones immediately upon reaching that point, then that's always the awkward moment, in Leonard's experience. But this is awkward anyway, because for all his speculations he's never _actually_ got naked with a guy before.

And before he can stop himself, he's acted on that awkwardness and put a hand over his genitals. It's honestly not the coolest move he's ever pulled. He absolutely cannot blame Wil for collapsing with laughter, swivelling over onto his belly and snorting into the pillows, body jerking.

“Well, it's okay for _you_ ,” Leonard says defensively, dropping his reflexive move, his hand, and giving the gifts that mother nature gave him a bit of air again, however difficult it is. “When you've got something you could stick on a gateway in Ancient Greece and have the locals dipping the knee to pay homage to your equipment, I guess you're going to be a bit less self-conscious about what you've got to offer. That thing would make the locals self-conscious about their diddly little herms.” He's kidding, right, but in fact he's barely done the due diligence to have any opinion on the subject. They're both here, butt-naked now, and he did get a glimpse before Wil started burrowing into the sheets and laughing his very fine ass off.

But that means that that self-same ass is about all he's got to go on, as far as a cool-headed and detached assessment of Wil's charms and equipment is concerned.

Yeah. He got a glimpse, though. Wil has nothing to worry about. Nor has Leonard, for that matter, and he has the certificate from Penny to prove it. He's only going to think about the certificate part of that fact, though. She actually _made_ him a little certificate, bodged it up in Gimp and all, printed it out and framed it and stuck it on the bedroom wall in her apartment. That was after her numerous verbal reassurances didn't prove to be enough, 'cause Leonard just couldn't resist asking _one more time_ , seeking just one more bit of shoring up to his self-esteem. 

So. It's in black and white, hard physical evidence that Leonard's got (sometimes) hard physical evidence that he's the stud of the CalTech Physics department, virile and equipped and ready to please the ladies. The guys, too, maybe. Apparently. 

Wil's amusement does abate, though, finally. Which is a relief, because Leonard's pretty much used to provoking amusement in the bedroom area, but still it's not something that's going to enhance his performance, or keep his dick in the game. From its aroused and enthusiastic state only a couple of minutes ago, it's rapidly reverted to a shrinking violet status, like it's trying to hide away from the world and from Wil's eyes. This isn't so good.

But Wil puts it right. He relaxes out of the spasms of giggling, and rolls over to put a hand out gently, resting it on Leonard's belly. Even in the half-light it draws attention to the fact that Leonard's dick can't decide what the hell's going on, or how to feel about it. 

(Wil's dick seems pretty happy, though. Happy and proud, standing up for the flag and America and the Starfleet. And, yes, outshining Leonard's in both length, girth and state of arousal. Although that's fine! Leonard's fine with that! Even if he has to insist upon the fact to himself! He's not intimidated at all. Not _at all._

“Well,” Wil says, calming down properly, “thanks. I guess!” And he edges closer, close enough that they're touching, then presses up closer than that, up against Leonard's side. Leonard's still on his back, propped up on his elbows, and giving Wil only the most scanty eye-contact, sending him worried, placatory little glances while trying to look cool. Trying to look cool, while bare-ass naked and looking down at his own belly, Wil's hand on his belly, his own dick gradually losing its shyness and getting the shrinking violet thing out of its system. It bulks up and gets the idea of what they're about here.

Helped by Wil's hand straying a little, and Leonard has to catch a breath hard and fast as Wil's knuckles graze over his balls, barely touching, barely enough for any stimulation. And somehow that's more of a firecracker to every neuron he's got down there, than any amount of mangling and tickling could possibly be. Also that Wil's _watching_ , both their heads leaning close together as Leonard's dick decides yes, yeah, it's got nothing to worry about and _let's get out there and wreak some destruction and ruination!_

“See?” Wil says, breathing soft and hot on Leonard's earlobe, making Leonard flush up more than he's already doing. And his cheeks are currently burning, trying to set him on fire in a different way to the fire raging down below. “You've got nothing to worry about. And,” he adds, in a tone that's meditative, contemplative – Leonard's always liked that about Wil, how he's a thinker, a conciliator, temperate, hard to piss off, so different from – No, that's a buzz-kill, he's not going there. 

He closes his eyes tight against the past and what he's lost, and concentrates on Wil's voice, and his hand that's grazing, now, over Leonard's dick. “And I think you're a good person, with a lot to offer, and also you have a nice ass. Which, you know, the character attributes, that's all well and good, but I can tell you authoritatively – directly quoting my agent, by the way – that a nice ass is for _life_.”

The snorts and giggles probably aren't all that attractive, but Leonard might as well defy gravity as try to repress 'em, and anyway they don't seem to put Wil off his game significantly. In fact they don't slow him down whatsoever, and even seem to spur him on. Leonard's still snickering as he finds himself pushed down flat, elbows knocked out from under him. He's pressed further and deeper into the mattress as Wil climbs over him, a leg between his knees and one languidly trailing outwith his torso. Just gangling and splayed over him, running smooth smallish hands over Leonard's hair and face, eyes flickering over it too. Mouth to eyes to hair to ears, and back to mouth again.

Leonard's aware that he's not completely sober, not yet – not surprising after the amount he put away a very few short hours previous – but sober enough for consent, sure. And Wil had something less. It's a good thing, because Wil's mouth is all over his in sloppy wet kisses that don't confine themselves to the boundaries of his mouth. It's more like Wil's tasting his face, his skin, the sweat in the crease of soft flesh under his chin, the dried tears that must be transparently crusted over his delicate under-eye skin. (No more borrowing Penny's French night-cream, not now.) His dick is twitching and pressed up against Wil's thigh, getting little flowing waves of pleasure from the friction, as Wil moves restlessly over Leonard, shifting his legs, getting a better grip, holding to a clump of his hair a little tight.

(Leonard likes it, kind of. He's always liked it when Penny gets a little rough– No.)

And Wil's dick is rubbing against him, too, and he can feel the moisture where he's excited enough for a little pre-ejac to be squeezing its way out, and it – is – nice. To feel desirable, even acceptable, to be with someone who likes him.

His heart's a desert in the middle of the night, stone-cold, but his body's warmer and warmer and warmer, every minute. So fuck that. 

And Wil begins to move down his body, to brush his lips over Leonard's shoulder where Leonard can feel himself begin to prickle with sweat, then to linger for moments at chest-level, letting his lips mumble and stumble over first one nipple, and then another. He's not sucking, not even kissing, it's so much lighter than that, the friction and rubbery drag of his mouth. Leonard's mouth falls open and he's not sure he even makes a sound. But he can feel his eyes go wide, and the heat of all the air rushing out of his lungs like it's Black Friday, and there's a rock-bottom sale on oxygen. Hot, hot, it's hot, and his dick is practically vibrating with need, with the warm buzz of pleasure imminent, pleasure promised that still isn't enough. Promises need to be made good on, contracts must be fulfilled, and _right now_.

And yet, when Wil decides to use teeth after all, gives him a sharp nip to one side of his man-boob and moves lower – just rubbing his cheek down to Leonard's navel, Leonard's hand on the bristly buzz of his hair moving along with his skull... Leonard stops him. Grips a hold of his shoulder with his free hand.

“No, wait.” Stopping Wil is the last thing he wants to do, though. He doesn't even know _why_.

Wil raises his head, flushed and bright-eyed, gleaming in the gloaming. He looks concerned, but has a little smile going on too. He looks happy, yeah, happy. (Nice to make someone happy. All his researches and hypothesizing about strings and quarks, how happy are they ever going to make anyone? Barring Sheldon, when he gets a snicker out of them. Maybe Leonard would be better off with a g-string and some sparkles stuck on his chest, a dickie-bow minus the tux, shakin' it for the cougars in a ladies-only strip-club. Or not ladies-only, even, going on tonight's events. Someone would be getting solid, measurable value for money out of it, at least. Seven inches' worth. Wil doesn't look like he's regretting anything.)

But worried, maybe. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop? Are you gonna puke?” Yeah, definitely concerned now. And jerking up a little, like if Leonard feels like a mad dash for the bathroom has top priority then he's sure as fuck not gonna be standing in his way. 

It's okay, though. The thought has clarified, and Leonard knows what he wants, and it's nothing to do with the beer that's going to make a reappearance in maybe four or five hours. Along with an angle-grinder getting friendly with his cerebellum. He slides a hand up Wil's thigh – and it's strange how not-strange it is to feel the light fuzz on it, the undepilated rough tickle against the palm of his hand – and rests it on his hip. Warm. Just like Wil is, himself, his heart.

“You okay, buddy?” Wil asks, expression taken out of the 'quizzical-beaver' section of his picture file. “You seem– ”

But he's cut off, because Leonard has shoved him down into the covers, and is moving in on his dick with the resolve of an explorer of uncharted lands. Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, where no Starfleet has gone before, and the orange-chicken section of the menu in Szechuan Palace. And he's not scared, exactly, and not even apprehensive. It feels a lot more like the first time that he set out on the first page of _A Brief History of Time_ , or when he got joyfully lost underground in the Large Hadron Collider when he took Penny – no, Raj – to Switzerland. The hunger and dehydration wasn't so good, though. That took an awful lot of chocolate to work through, and finding the dark stuff had taken them through every boutique chocolatier in the tourist quarter in Geneva. Milka, Milka everywhere, and not a square of Lindt dark.

He has full confidence in his own ability to master the technical aspects of any task requiring dextrous manual handling combined with an understanding of hydraulics, anatomy and project management to a satisfactory conclusion. Which means he's pretty much a natural for blow-jobs. And mastering new skills is part of the nerd toolbox. He can play a cello, operate an oscilloscope, and he was working as a video games tester before he got out of tenth grade three accelerated grades early. And if Wolowitz wasn't intimidated by a trip to the outer reaches of the galaxy – well, to the thermosphere anyhow – well, Wolowitz tried to get Bernadette to write a note ostensibly from his Mom, but that's neither here nor there... What Leonard means is, if Wolowitz can survive zero gravity then Leonard can learn to suck dick. And he can learn to _like_ it.

It tastes strange, that's his first thought, on applying tongue and lips as gingerly as if the head of Wil's dick might be chili-coated, or lactose-contaminated. And how can a mouth be so much smaller, a dick so much bigger than objective summarising assessments gives their comparative sizes and capacities to be? Of course, Wil's dick is bigger than... well, even so! You'd think it would be easier than this! It's a simple engineering issue, calculating tolerances within practical requirements for all possible purposes! Biological design requirements are flexible of necessity, and evolution has totally fucked up with the whole _dick versus mouth_ design issue.

He has a new respect for Penny, and the flair and implacability she brings to this particular act. How the hell has she acquired such skill, élan and cheekiness in performing fellatio? Oh, he doesn't want to think about that.

Wil distracts him, with a sighing little plea, a trail of fingertips sliding down his cheek to bring his mind back to the task at hand. At mouth. There's nothing about his verbalization that resembles actual words, and that's fine. His garbled, swallowed pleas work just fine for Leonard, much much better than fine in fact. Leonard presses down, hard, as he shuffles quickly down the bed and lets his mouth travel over Wil's skin, his hips and the dip and sway from the bone to his belly, the little moutains of the hipbones and the tickling undergrowth of his pubes. And back to his dick, his balls, letting his nose nudge into the vulnerability of the sac, barely putting his lips to it, but once, twice, letting his teeth press up against the shaft without digging in.

The noises Wil is making sound pretty close to sobbing. And Leonard feels suddenly pretty pleased with himself. This is totally something he can ace! This is a test he can game the curve on. If he wasn't already convinced of it, then the way that Wil yanks groggily, wildly at a strand of his hair – ow, as if male pattern baldness wasn't a real enough threat at this stage already – and snarls at him with wordless seriousness, gets the message across well enough.

And he lifts his head up quickly, meerkat style, for one quick grin at Wil's wild-eyed glare, before he goes for it in earnest. Sinks his mouth down over the gift that nature gave Wil, and she was generous in her gifts too. He fucking chokes and gags in his over-enthusiasm, of course, and Wil wheezes as he lifts him up by the hair, half-laughing and half-gasping, and a bit watery around the eyes.

“Don't do yourself an injury, buddy!” he advises. And boy, that's just a challenge and an insult to Leonard's manhood. To his capacity to take on _Wil's_ manhood, which he absolutely can do, no question.

He puffs out his little barrel chest, his chicken-chest, and makes his Mob-guy face, his tough guy face. “Maybe I wanna – er – I'm fine! I can totally do this!”

“Yeah, well don't let me stop you,” Wil says. And _too late_ because _he hasn't he can't he won't_. This is _on,_ Wil wants him, this is definitely _going the distance_. And his regular psych-up for the terrors of sex works its magic, without the usual accompanying panic attack. He's on that, he's opening his lips to lick all over the head of Wil's cock, where he's brought the foreskin down for a lovely view and clear access. (Leonard has a feeling that he should be getting a dose of the fear-of-the-cock that any other usually straight guy would surely be experiencing right now. But he's known about himself for a good long while. Even if he's brushed it aside mentally as a trifling issue, barely significant in the shadow of his periodic heterosexual romantic disasters. Or maybe Raj has conditioned him with his perpetual slips and hints and Freudian declarations, of love and devotion to Howard – first – and all of his other man-friends, secondarily. Until he got wise and got with the program, got a ring on Stuart's finger and some prime real estate in the booming geek-market in his portfolio.) 

He doesn't feel fear. Only determination, a sense of competition with his fumbled first attempt, and the fierce tingles and warm fuzzy burrs of pleasure as his own cock brushes against the bedclothes. Slowly he opens his mouth further, lets his tongue tickle at the ridge of foreskin as he goes – down. Not all the way: there's _competitive_ , and then there's _inviting a trip to the emergency room_. But down deep enough, that he can feel as well as hear Wil's voice as it shakes his chest, feel his shudders.

“Nice work,” Wil says. And he sounds like he might cry, like Leonard's mouth on him is more than he can bear. Like playing at _blasé_ is too much of a stretch, a reach right now, although he still tries. He's still _Wil Wheaton_ , after all.

Leonard thinks he might like giving blowjobs. He doesn't usually get to experience this much power, in bed or out of it, barring when he's the Swordmaster and Azeroth's tool is in his hand. Well, so far, so similar.

And he sucks: that's the general idea, isn't it? Tries things: tongue up and down a vein, faster, slower, hand fisted at the base just above Wil's balls, then gentler and sliding a little bit. All of it seems to work, nothing he can specially identify as the crucial move. Which is a pain in the ass, because close analysis and identification of variable factors is really an important part of experimental design and methodological analysis. How is he going to write this up, if he hasn't accurately identified all experimental parameters and precipitating factors?

Write it up, if he – oh, yeah, he _isn't_. You wouldn't think a cock in the mouth could travel far enough to affect brain function. He doesn't _think_ the roof of his mouth has been breached, he would have noticed. Although it's interesting to speculate just what learned scholarly journal would be interested in an article on, 'Maiden voyages in fellatial activity and semen interaction with cerebellar neurons'. He hasn't actually seen a _Cocksucker's Journal_ in the academic catalogues, or in the list of college publications on–

A tap on the head, and then a shove to the forehead and a jerk to the hips that leaves his throat feeling like half the surface mucosa's been taken off, gives him the hint that Wil's on the point of coming. That, and the sobbing grunt, barely intelligible, of, “Acing the test, Lenny, you're acing the test! If you don't want proof right now, you'd better– ”

Another jerk of the hips, and Leonard's got the idea. But damn it, if he's going to _do_ the job, then he's going to apply the full toolbox of his geek characteristics and qualities: the thoroughness, application, persistence and technically adept skillset, the obstinacy and the attention to detail.

What is he, some kind of sissy who can't swallow? It's a long time since he had a psychological hypochondriacal physical reaction to imaginary stimuli, or spontaneous production of psychosomatic symptoms.

Anyhow, there's no dairy products in semen. As far as he's aware. Maybe they did go heavy on the cheetos tonight, but in the semen? 

And he's swallowing anyway, because there's Wil's hand resting light on the back of his neck and his own hands on gently furry thighs and _fucking Christ_ is that what it tastes like? The decision's made, and Wil's yelping and bucking like, like a little mouse (for the auditory component anyhow) combined with a vicious stag. Maybe some horrific genetic experiment that Amy Farrah Fowler keeps in the double-door triple-locked back-room of her lab.

He's _sucking down semen_ , it's not the moment to ask him to come up with an appropriate simile, all right? It's work, (hard work), and something to get right. And he concentrates on not slipping off, on keeping up the rhythm and pressure, through Wil's initial convulsions, the five or six hard grunting thrusts and then the loss of consistent rhythm. The sporadic jittery flails that have his hands shooting out spastically and wild. One hits Leonard in the eye, just as Wil's finally definitely easing and slowing to a finishing stretch and sighs and relaxation. The yelp as Leonard pulls off, mouth wet with spit and cum, is probably comical enough to justify Wil's reaction.

Not that Leonard relishes being the object of helpless amusement, for someone whose dick he's just sucked, whose semen he's just (mostly) swallowed. (Damn it. He's going to have to discuss dietary modifications to ejaculatory gustatory experience with Amy Farrah Fowler. Better put it that way, or her head'll fly off and her cardigan'll spontaneously combust. Or maybe possible nanobot genetic modifications to same. That experience is definitely open to improvement.)


	4. it gets sweeter baby, as it grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love growing out of friendship is a beautiful thing. If only Wil and Leonard can manage a little undisturbed time alone together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Ike and Tina Turner's 'River Deep, Mountain High'.
> 
> 'Rebel Without A Cause' and 'Let's Make A Deal' references within.

But Wil's not lacking in tact and charm, and he stifles the mirth pretty quick. His hands, clenching fists a moment or two before, reach out to beckon, to stroke and ruffle through Leonard's hair, to bring him up the bed so they can settle facing each other. Solemn gazes abound, then. The sweet little moments of peace after coming – after one of you has come, anyhow – and the comfort of just not being alone, right now, has Leonard smiling.

Not as wide as Wil, maybe. But then he's not the one who just got his dick sucked, by a first-time intern, too. As Leonard brings his hands up to rest comfortably up by his face, Wil gathers them by the wrist into one of his own. (And Leonard's never noticed how big Wil's hands are, how broad his shoulders. Somehow he never quite expects anyone who counts as one of the nerdmigos' social circle, to be in any way a real manly man, a Hulk with a temper under control. And yet Howard's an astronaut, which in modern symbology is practically a cowboy in the Old West. Howard, symbol of virility and exploration, reckless adventurer! And Raj, it seems, is a thrusting and talkative top in bed, dominating and keeping his sweetheart happily under the thumb. … It's not like Leonard wants to know that. None of them want to know that. But both Raj and Stuart are way too exuberantly confiding – maybe boastful – about their sex-life. There's a pact going on amongst the nerds that if it gets as far as Raj starting to tell them about sex toys or costumes that never see the light of day at ComiCon, then they're going to have to lure him into the woods and kill him.)

But anyway. Right now, he has his hands captured, very gently, with not much effort on Wil's part. And Wil's other hand goes, oh yeah, where you might expect, where Leonard was hopefully, somewhat confidently expecting. And he's not really disappointed, because hey it's not a matter of keeping score on a whiteboard or a strict _quid pro quo_. He's not owed a...

“Now,” Wil says, sounding unbearably smugly amused, as he takes one long firm confident stroke along the length of Leonard's, uh, length. “I'll pay you back for that, in the morning. Because that was nice: very nice, for a newbie. But right now, I just want to watch you.”

So he does, through a handjob that's slick and easy from Wil's own cum, which should be gross as a lubricant but is more than okay. Leonard figures it's okay if he likes it. He's had a rough day, the rough day of his lifetime, and anything he likes is a private good to be cherished. Sometimes through closed eyes and sometimes staring up, and sometimes through a tangle of lashes that make the dim room darker and Wil just a black shape looming over him, Leonard does watch Wil watching him. As Wil jerks him off slow and easy and pleasant, a smile on his face and his eyes half the time on Leonard.

The other half he kisses Leonard through it, light chaste kisses for cheek and shoulder and hair. These are not the kind of accompaniment you'd usually get on the menu for a handjob. As a side-dish Leonard likes them though, would order again. They are _agape_ , and the physical version of friendly love in the form of Wil's dry gentle mouth on various bits of him, while he thrusts up into a very expert fist.

What he thinks as he comes is, _'I'm happy.'_ Then he comes, and that has to be the weirdest micro-instant in the whole day. True, though. Worst day of his life maybe, although it has some competition. But for that pure friendly caring moment, as long as the pleasure lasts, he's happy.

How much does he owe Wil for this in some insubstantial virtual ledger, for this willingness to act as a human analgesic? More than he can calculate, and in a currency he can barely define. He could cry, but the crying would be sweet now, not like earlier. His orgasm is qualitatively unusual, long and relaxed and without the 'empty' quality that troubles him sometimes, the pleasure that isn't even particularly pleasurable but more like a nervous reflex. The spasms and twitches as it declines and ebbs aren't flinchingly ticklish and uncomfortable, like usual. He stays relaxed, the pleasure ebbs only slowly, is warm and sweet, and the sinking into sleep is so subtle and undefined he barely notices it.

Which is why, when he jerks up awake forty minutes later, from a pleasant warm huddle scrunched and curled up against Wil, he could be happier. Much. It takes three seconds before he even works out what it is that's woken him up, three seconds that Wil spends snuffling in sleep, grumbling wordlessly without breaking the surface of consciousness.

Then the three seconds are up, and the _rat-a-tat-tatt_ ing at the outer hallway door starts up again, the same that must have been the initial impetus to his startled breakout from a relaxed stupor. Because the pause is traditional, now. Sheldon has memetically infected the whole gang of them: there's not a one that doesn't utilise exactly this rhythm and protocol when approaching a doorway and the denizens within, whether friend, foe or President Siebert. Wil himself being a case in point.

So it could be anyone: and Leonard is more annoyed than alarmed, even given the lateness of the hour. He remembers that Sheldon isn't home – and even if he were, he typically applies entirely different and quite hypocritical standards to anyone disturbing his own sleep, compared to his approach to his assumed _carte blanche_. 

If Leonard doesn't answer the door, late in the midnight hour, then it ain't getting answered. And the knocking, as per Sheldon's excellent training, ain't stopping. It's minus the usual call-and-response element, though, a glaring omission.

It could be anyone.

And Leonard hauls himself reluctantly out of that cosy huddle on top of the duvet, warm enough from Wil's rather remarkable body heat. It doesn't wake Wil, still, not quite – his ability to determinedly sleep through anything is impressive too, and bodes well for future early-morning cuddles and late-morning lie-ins, should such occur, if Leonard isn't presuming too much. Although he protests a little even so, and launches himself into the chill empty space left behind in search of missing warmth, as Leonard goes to greet a midnight visitor, taking no warning from the example of the monkey's paw or the Midnight Man or any urban myth ever. 

Sinister possibilities aside, he opens the door and it's Penny.

He wasn't expecting that. It's more unnerving than an undead visitor from the grave, or Stephen Hawking, or Kripke would be. (Well, maybe not Kripke.) They stare at each other a moment, and Penny drops her hands.

She looks a little wrecked. Apart from wrinkled and disordered clothing, and the gummy-eyed flush of just having woken from slumbers, he probably looks better – calmer – more tranquil than might be expected in the circumstances. That puts them about, well, not _evens_. Leonard's pretty safe as front-runner in the heartbreak stakes. He would put money down. But closer to neck-and-neck than anyone would have assumed. Than he would have himself, ten hours ago.

He finds his voice first, even. “Okay. Ah, hi. …” The pause is excruciating. “Do you want to come in?” He figures any reference to the lateness of the hour is redundant. She knows what time it is. And they're in crisis mode, so what does it signify.

Penny nods, shaky, and avoids his eye as she slides past him quick. When she heads straight for the couch and curls up in Sheldon's spot, it seems more a matter of an instinctive search for comfort than absence of mind. And Leonard lets himself move up a little closer, then stands and looks at her. Helplessly, that's how. He doesn't know how to ask what she wants from him, and it seems a little abrupt anyway.

But she looks distressed enough that he has to wonder. She's come to this source, this apartment often enough for a specific form of comfort, after all. “Do you want me to sing...” he begins, dubiously.

It breaks up the moment. Penny chokes out a surprised laugh, hand over her mouth. And she smiles up at him, which is a fair improvement on a moment ago. “'Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty'?” she asks, and he laughs along with her. It was a ridiculous thought. But they've been a ridiculously mismatched couple. 

“Well, I'm not sick,” she says, calming and quieting. Her beautiful blue eyes are red-rimmed and look to be sore from weeping, her hair is fluffy. It's almost as cavewoman-matted as that time she got hardcore into gaming, and they had to talk her down and walk her through the twelve steps to get her off of Halo and back to her non-nerd existence. Maybe Leonard should take it as a compliment, that she's taken it so hard after all. But he can't, even so. He's not the guy who could break Penny's heart. And he's not the guy who could puff up, big-headed and proud, if he did. He never wants Penny to feel a moment's sorrow, and he can't feel sorry that _that's_ the guy he is. He wouldn't change it, he discovers, not if he could. 

This is just one more thing he'd be happy to do for her, if it eases her pain. “You don't have to be,” he suggests, and she laughs at him again. It devolves, maybe, into a slight sob, but she wipes her eyes smiling. 

“Sheldon will excommunicate you according to _Section Four Subsection Eight d)_ , if he hears you say that,” she points out. (It's terrifying that she's not even bullshitting on the specific lines and paragraphs. That is, in fact, exactly how pat and glib they all have the agreement down, at this point.) “Sacrilege,” she adds. And she pats the other cushion of the sofa. “Come sit down with me? See,” she adds, prodding and scritching her pretty rhinestone-studded acrylics at the leather of _Sheldon's_ couch cushion. “Now I'm an outlaw. Come be an outlaw with me.”

Breath catches in Leonard's throat, it really does, and he's almost afraid. Penny's looking hopefully up at him, and he's not sure if it's a dare or a plea. But he can almost see her wobbling on the edge of a cliff – the fall that'll put an end to their on/off/on/off of all these years. (So many! So many years, now!) If she's pleading, she's pleading for him to pull her back from the edge, back into the safety of a dysfunction that's served its purpose, and given them a good-enough emotional home, up until this point. To save her from freedom. _Brrrr_ , it's cold, and scary out there, alone without a sweetie. Without the guy who's loved you through thick and thin and on and off, never wavering. If you _almost_ love him, it must be, like, super-difficult. 

Maybe she's daring him to jump right along with her. For a glorious triumphant _sploosh_ into warm tropical blue waters, to swim with dolphins and boop them on the nose in play. 

Or to go _crunch_ on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, and if he ran away with Penny now, he's betting on that as the likelier outcome. Him and Penny, ageing runaway waifs on the seamy side of Tinseltown? Him flipping burgers or – getting real – teaching community college, and supporting Penny through one last-gasp flail at stardom? 

They would rip each other to pieces, inside of six months. 

Or maybe it really is the _status quo_ she's inviting him to resume, to crawl back cosily into that womby crawl-space, and never leave. _Never leave._ Safe _forever._

Or say no. He could say no, _nonono_. He could save both of them from that craven surrender to fear, that privileging of familiar comfort and safety over dreams. It would be a first. It would require a backbone. A little late to start culturing one from a few stem cells, with this kind of a deadline.

 _Which door has the Cadillac, Leonard? Which door will you choose?_ , Monty demands. Leonard drags a hand through his hair, and stares down at her, a novel experience. He wonders if someone... God, or Stephen Hawking, if it's not a tautology... will save him from this moment, and what feels like a commitment, and a decision.

But it's not a deity that saves him. His bedroom door creaks open, instead, and Wil steps out. Half-asleep, rubbing a hand over a red and crumpled face. But thank any god available - whatcha got? - he's dragged his pants back on, at least. He's only bare-chested. Only half-naked, the minor celebrity – minor male celebrity – who's just stepped out of his bedroom, in the middle of the night. With Leonard's ex turned around on the couch – jumping one hundred and eighty degrees, like a startled cat – and staring at him. This pussy is neither soft nor warm, suddenly, it's clear to Leonard at least.

“Hey,” Wil says amiably, vaguely at both of them, looking between them. “Hey, Penny. What's going on?”


	5. oh how I love you baby, baby, baby, baby!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings all round, after a fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title as per other chapter titles. Hello ambiguity.
> 
> Paul McCartney/Michael Jackson song reference.

Good question. It's a _good question._ Leonard feels like he maybe needs to answer it for Penny's benefit, more than Wil's, possibly. She's staring at Wil, but she turns to Leonard, and her face is perfectly expressionless. That's not too frequent with Penny. He's seen it just often enough to be worried, and thankful that she has no current access to firearms. Worried for Wil more than himself, maybe.

Which is ridiculous, he realises. Because – newsflash – Penny broke up with _him_. Not the other way about. She isn't a scorned woman, and Wil isn't the slutty other... person here. And – underline it – _Leonard isn't cheating._ He firms up his spine, and stands straighter at the realisation. But he sags a bit again, as he meets Penny's eye. 

And Wil is watching the both of them, chewing on his lip like someone who begins to realise that it would be better to be elsewhere. He answers his own question. “You guys need to talk,” he decides, taking a step back towards the bedroom. “Without me in the way. I guess I'll go back to slee – ”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Penny interrupts him, just barely. Just barely, but she does interrupt him. “You _do_ that.” The slight whistle that Wil gives – and it's a good thing that Sheldon isn't here to hear him, or else it might be a case of 'Wil Wheaton, my mortal enemy' all over again – gets Leonard's attention efficiently. Wil nods at him, jerks his head back to the bedroom, and leaves them be. (His eyes are a little wide with mock-alarm. But he's leaving Leonard to his fate. Nothing else to be done. It's the logical conclusion.)

It's for the best. Even if it feels like Leonard's been abandoned in a zoo enclosure, with something with too much muscle, and too many teeth. Penny ignores the whole process. She's still staring at Wil's back, as he disappears into the bedroom and shuts the door quietly. 

The silence in the moment that the door clicks, vibrates... Penny's turning his way – slow. Leonard feels like he should be preparing to get torn apart, like something on the savannah that's annoyed a really testy lioness. 

And in the next second, it occurs to him to wonder the hell _why_. 

He hasn't been unfaithful. His dick hasn't been dipped anywhere it shouldn't be. And he feels his stance firm, his face harden, he meets her eyes. Probably he wouldn't recognise himself, if he was looking through Penny's eyes. “Hey, you dumped _me_!”

There, he's got it in first, as she opens her mouth. And he folds his arms, raises an eyebrow. He can see it hit the mark: the outraged homeowner confronting burglars is suddenly... It's just Penny. Flailing, flinging an arm around, looking about her for inspiration, now that fury and betrayal aren't legit options. Her mouth flaps like a goldfish. It's not her best look ever, especially considering her current state of _deshabille_ and absence of grooming. She does find words though. 

“You didn't... I don't... Like, it was eight hours ago! Tops!” She's breathing hard, and they pause and stare at each other. 

If Leonard's mouth quirks just a little bit in unexpected amusement, it's nothing he's planned. He shrugs. “Don't they say you should get right back on the horse? Can't put a saddle on Leonard Hofstadter, baby. Bees gotta buzz, birds gotta fly...”

It may possibly be a little bit smug. It's certainly a little bit too early, because she's not seeing the funny side. Her face tightens instead, and she looks back at the bedroom door. “You know, if you'd ever _once_ mentioned you were bi? And really?” She stares at the door like her eyes are lasers, and she could burn a hole in it and just keep right on going through Wil's hide. “Wil?” Her eyes narrow with suspicion: her thighs flex: Leonard takes a step backwards. “How the hell long has this been going on, anyway?”

Being hit with that, maybe Leonard's lower lip lolls open for a moment. Then his volume dial gets kicked up a notch – Wil's awake already, after all – and he surprises himself. Stands rigid, not just upright. Feels real anger. Real anger feels _good_. “Naw. No to _that. No._ ” Passive, repressed, anxiously placatory Leonard has gone bye-bye, submerged in the _id_. Who is this new self anyhow, unrepentant, umimpressed? Maybe he's always been MPD, DID, and no other Leonard has popped out to say howdy until now, that's all. He clenches his eyes shut, opens them like _brrr-ping_ on a microwave, and glares at Penny. He doesn't loom over her – because he's not built for it. But he barely restrains himself from jabbng an accusatory finger her way. “That is bullshit. And you know it. You're looking for an excuse to be angry with me, because you haven't got a leg to _stand_ on, regarding the way things really are. You know I never cheated on you, you know it in your gut, you know I would never, never _ever – ”_

_Leonard,_ he really cannot catch a break, cannot. The one time, the _one_ time he mans up, stands up for himself and confronts someone like a Justice League of America agent, he can't get away with it. Penny's face crumbles, red, screwed up suddenly. She's crying. Of all the lousy low-down unfair tricks to play on a nerd. 

Well, he's an expert on abruptly caving, on care-taking for other people. Go with your strengths, right? And there he goes, ass parked down on the couch, and hovering, vibrating with anxiety. To grab her flexing, clenching butterfly hands, as she wordlessly gestures out her distress? Or just to throw his arms round her, hug out the pain that wells up from a seam too deep to mine? For both of them. 

She slides forward like a landslide, into his arms. That's his dilemma decided, for him. “I would never,” he repeats, but he repeats it much more softly, patting at her fluffy hair. “I never cheated on you, I never thought of it.” This isn't exactly true. There's the cute redhead at CalTech who had a thing for him, and he's had the odd stray inappropriate thought about Bernadette too. He does like a feisty dame. Imprinted early, there's no hope for him on that issue. But thinking isn't the same thing as doing, whatever Sheldon's mom says. And she's hardly a template of purity herself. 

This isn't how he expected this day to end. If there are any more surprises packed into this twenty-four hours, then his over-stuffed brainpain might explode. But it's good, to end it this way. Penny in his arms, for maybe one last time, and he hugs her that little bit tighter at the thought. Then she _oofs_ from the rib-pressure, and pushes back a little. 

“I'll always love you,” he whispers, because it's true forever through four dimensions or more, and to the corners of a limitless universe. Like apples and sin and knowledge and gravity, or some combo of such. Ask Sheldon or his mom, Sir Isaac or the snake in Eden, choose your own truth. “Always.” 

“Don't launch into a little Whitney Houston here,” she warns him. “Every note is a bum note for you, baby.” Like she can talk. But he buttons his lip as he feels her reach down his back, scrabbling at the side of the couch cushions. Her arm is digging into his neck and shoulder, and he's exasperated, at the sudden letdown from their big moment, their sweet sad break-up hug. It wasn't riveting enough for Penny, it seems: she's got distracted. 

“What the heck?” he's protesting. But already she's hit paydirt, found success, and lets him loose with a pleased cry. She pushes back a little, to take a look at her haul. And Leonard gets a glimpse too, as he pulls his crumpled t-shirt straight, and looks back up. It's one of the Cheetos packets he's worked through with Wil, along with most of the beer and half the contents of the fridge. A little queasy, he's still feeling. 

Penny crumples the packet up noisily in her hand, and smirks at him, grins a little damply. “Cheetos?” she asks. “On a first sleepover? Is that wise?” 

“Oh shut up,” Leonard says defensively. “I hardly had _any_.” 

“Heard that before,” she observes. Then her face gets sad again, and he can hardly stand to see it. “Is this a thing, then? You and Wil? I mean, this is out of nowhere for me, have you ever... Did you always like him?” They're still up close, they're gazing into each others' eyes like a first date, they could have just met. Leonard would like that. He would like to go back to the start. He would not go back and scrub a single moment of Penny out of his life retrospectively, not to save him this heartbreak or all the lingering sorrow to come. Not even if their hundredweight of H.G. Wells time machine, now residing in Raj and Stuart's primo upscale comics emporium in the ritziest mall in L.A., served any function barring as a cuddling couch. (It's for geeks who get lucky while browsing. It hasn't seen a whole lot of action thus far. But it's an attraction.) 

He'd like to be starting all over again with Penny. He'll never regret a second of what he's still calling the love of his life. No matter what, she'll always be the love of his life. That applies in perpetuity, even if it scores the second half in a sad plangent minor key. 

But he says none of that, because you can take a guilt trip too far. Just, “No, I... I didn't expect this. I mean, he came around to keep me company, because I was...” 

Well, you can guilt-trip someone even without trying, seems like. Penny's face crumples, and she gives a little _oof_ of pain, mouth pursed up with it. But she hoists self-control back into her possession. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. Leonard, maybe we should forget all this.” Her face is desperate and urgent, an action heroine in crisis. Someone must be saved, the heroine will save the day surely. 

And she never has learnt to be precise in her speech, to delineate her parameters with exactness, to specify objects and remove all ambiguity. Tl;dr, he's not quite sure what she means, out of all the exciting and dire and disastrous possibilities. “Well, if you want to go back to bed and forget what you saw, maybe it would be better,” he says cautiously. It's the conservative possibility. 

She grabs at his hand like a claw, eyes a little wild. “I mean forget breaking up. Don't you think so? Do you think so? Wouldn't we be better off back together?” 

Most of him would like to say yes. Love would like him to say yes, urges him to it. It's a pity he was trained as a scientist from about age five, by a pitiless and exacting maternal unit. Truth is sacrosanct, and accurate conclusions are on a pedestal above comforting fluff. “No,” Leonard says. And Penny's eyes are too calm – all her body stills and calms, hearing him, recognising the truth – for him to tell himself it's the wrong answer. 

xxx 

Give it six months. Six months, and Leonard's come a long way baby. Maybe he didn't quite expect to come this far, though. He looks down at the floor beneath his feet, at the red carpet. And then he looks back, to where Wil's still climbing out of the limo, smiling and waving as a few flashes go off, and a fair bunch of geeks squeal. This is not what he would have predicted as the outcome of one night's comfort, after Penny came to a few uncomfortable conclusions and put them into effect. 

You take one step after another, after disaster and loss, right? This is where those steps, thousands, have led him. To a Hollywood premiere – of a quite decently-budgeted sci-fi flick, a return to career form for Wil. To being the date for the night – the significant other – of one of the supporting names. He's on an ex-Star Trek actor's arm. And Will bought him a suit for this shindig that costs more than Leonard's ever spent on clothes in his life, ever, in total. And if he's not hearing things, then some reporter with a mic in the inner circle just referred to him as the 'trophy boyfriend – yeah, the cutie short one'. 

He's a _trophy boyfriend_. (In this suit, maybe.) And there's a little grin on his lips, as he turns and waits. Wil catches up to him, slips an arm around his waist, and grabs a quick peck on his cheek as they turn to walk inside the auditorium. They're flanked by velvet rope, and moderately sizeable, hooting, shrieking crowds, and photographers. 

It's a sweet little snapshot of a moment, and if he's honest it feeds Leonard's vanity as much as his heart. No harm in that: these few months have built up his self-esteem in a way that a decisive paper on cold fusion and a _Scientific American_ headline could never do. Wil hasn't exactly rebuilt him from the ground up, he's done most of the work himself. But a fond and doting and generous celebrity boyfriend can never, never hurt in the process. 

It could end there, roll the credits, happy endings all round. But there's one moment still to roll, an extra scene, something from the gag reel or just proof that _they always come back_. Leonard grins sideways at Wil as they step forward, and then he looks towards the other end of the carpet, the starry charmers twinkling for the fans, the security and doormen muttering into earpieces and glowering at anyone stalkery-looking. 

And he lifts his hand, in salute. Because there she is, just about to wave goodbye to an adoring public, to step inside the ritzy VVIP inner sanctum and disappear away from the reaches of _hoi polloi. Penny._

Of course it's Penny. Barely recognisable with the new haircut, designer swathes of silk shrouding her toned curves, borrowed diamonds at throat and wrist. But still it's Penny. These six months have been decisive for her too. The break-up, losing her medical rep job, being utterly broke-ass penniless, going back to work at the Cheesecake Factory – how she'd stormed and wept at that. Their break-up was nothing, in comparison. Then the reality show, the discovery, a starring role in a hit TV sitcom. It sounds suspiciously unlikely, and what can one do but shrug and consider how very unlikely the universe itself is, when you come right down to it. Why - as the physicists tend to ask - does _anything_ exist? It's a question for the ages, but not for right now. And now, Penny's the big name in Wil's film, she's his co-star. Now she's in Hollywood. She _is_ Hollywood, she's this week's biggest name. (Only one name, now, a magical being so starry she's dispensed, on agented advice, with plebeian pedestrian flummery such as surnames. Only the greats can do that: and even now, so early, it's clear that there's only one _Penny_ , and no need for further signifier. Penny, up in lights. Give it a few years, and it'll be Penny, just _Penny_ , on Hollywood Boulevard, along with her handprints.) 

She is where she always wanted to be, who she was supposed to be. Nebraska's sweetheart, Leonard's old flame, his forever lover. 

And he catches her eye. They smile at each other, across the length of the red carpet, Leonard and Penny. She barely seems to notice, disregards, the co-star/date patting at her arm, trying to get her attention. They smile and smile, and Penny's smile is beautiful. The crowd sigh, and call out to her and wish upon a lovely Penny-shaped star. She's beautiful, and they've made her a star. 

But to Leonard, she's most beautiful of all. 


End file.
